Two Weeks in Marseilles
by Lady Lostris
Summary: Edmond's son wants to know more about his father. He goes to Marseilles to find the one person who can tell him what he wants to know. Please r
1. Default Chapter

A/N: Most of these characters are mine. Mercédès, Albert, Louis's mother, and the servants are figments of Alexandre Dumas's imagination. The rest of them are figments of my imagination.  
  
Two Weeks in Marseilles  
  
Chapter One - Questions.  
  
Louis Dantès chatted with the young men near him. He didn't get a chance to visit his friends as much as he would have liked because of his father's propensity for avoiding Paris society. He was going to enjoy it while he could. As usual they were embroiled in a political debate, this time about past politics.  
  
"Napoleon must have done something right. Look at how successful he was." Gaston said to his right.  
  
"Or wasn't. He eventually lost what he had gained," replied Henri to his left.  
  
"The fact the he gained it in the first place says something. And after he lost it, he was still able to gain it again." Guy said from the right of Gaston.  
  
"And lost it again even quicker than he had the first time," Henri replied.  
  
"And he still had followers. He had to have done something to get them to follow him and stick with him while he was on Elba." Gaston said.  
  
"Gaston, you sound like you would have supported Napoleon had you been alive when he was around." Henri said. Henri's grandfather had been a staunch supporter of King Louis in the time of Napoleon, and his grandson had doubtless picked up his views.  
  
"I have nothing against the king. I can't complain about the job he's doing. I'm merely pointing out that Napoleon must have had his merits," Gaston defended himself.  
  
"Louis, what do you think?" Guy asked.  
  
"Truthfully I don't know much about it. My father refused to discuss Napoleon with either my mother or me. Everything we know about that we learned from books, which were all contradictory. In a case like that it's hard to form an opinion of it."  
  
"Maybe he was against Napoleon. So much that he doesn't like talking about it." Henri's family was the type who liked to believe that anyone who actually followed Napoleon must have been ignorant of the way things worked.  
  
"I don't know why he won't talk about it, but I don't think that has anything to do with it."  
  
"If he didn't like Napoleon wouldn't he talk about it and make his opinion known?" Gaston's comments often led to disagreements.  
  
"His opinion doesn't matter anymore. There's no chance of Napoleon coming back." Louis felt the need to defend his father.  
  
"Does he need to make his opinion known? Hasn't he done it already?" Henri was as cryptic as always.  
  
"What do you mean?" Louis asked.  
  
"You have the name of the king who triumphed over him." Once again Henri's opinions were made clear.  
  
Louis smiled a little smile, the kind his father used so often. "No, I have the name of my grandfather."  
  
Just then a servant entered. "Monsieur Dantès, there is a message for you."  
  
Louis dismissed himself and left the room, where he saw Bertuccio, one of his father's servants, waiting for him. "Monsieur, I have some bad news. Your father just passed away."  
  
"Does my mother know?" He did not know if his mother had spent the day at home.  
  
"She was there when it happened. She doesn't want to do anything until you get home."  
  
"Thank you Bertuccio. Wait a moment and I shall be ready to leave." Bertuccio nodded and went to wait outside with the carriage.  
  
Louis reentered the room where his friends were. "I'm sorry that I have to leave you, but I just received word that my father passed away and I'm needed at home. I'll be in Paris for at least the next couple of days." He took his cloak and hat and went out to the waiting carriage.  
  
The house in Paris was one of two houses that his father kept. He had another one in Rome. His father liked to move between the two of them and rarely made appearances in public. Louis had heard a bit of gossip about his father. He realized that he and his mother were the ones that knew his father best, but there were still many questions that he could not answer about his father. His conversation with his friends had started him thinking. He had known his father all his life, naturally. But he hadn't known much about his father. His father didn't do much, and when he did, he didn't give an explanation for it. He suspected his mother didn't know much more about his father than he did. The one thing he knew about his father for sure was that he was a secret. His father was an enigma, one that he wanted to figure out. But now that his father had died, figuring out anything about him seemed unlikely.  
  
The carriage stopped in front of the house and Louis got out to find his mother inside. He found her in his father's sitting room, where his father had been and still was sitting in his chair. His father had always been a light sleeper, waking easily at the slightest sound. Not anymore. Now his father had entered a sleep he would never wake from. The look on his face was different too. Whereas in life he had always had an unreadable look on his face, where it was impossible to tell his emotions, he now had a look of peace, like he had resolved whatever inner conflict he had had. And Louis thought he knew the reason why.  
  
He finished reading the letter his father had left on his table for them to find with even more questions than he had had before. It alluded to some great secret in his past, one he wouldn't tell them during his life but would now help them find out in death. What was his secret, and who were these people? He wordlessly handed the letter to his mother and looked through the rest of his father's things. There was not much there that his mother had not already looked through, and there was nothing that would answer any of Louis's many questions. Then, as he was looking through a book that his father had loved, a slip of paper fell out. He picked it up. It contained three lines, written in his father's hand. Mercédès Herrara, read the first line. Allées de Meilhan, the second. And finally, Marseilles. He guessed it was recent. His father had put it in that book hoping someone would find it. He was telling them how to find out his secret. He wanted them to know.  
  
He turned to see his mother's reaction to his father's letter. She seemed as perplexed by it as he was. "There's so much to know.he never wanted us to know, but if he didn't want that why did he write this?"  
  
"He wants us to find out, and I think I know where to start. I'm going to go to Marseilles and see what I can find out."  
  
* * * * * * * * One week later Louis's father had been buried and Louis had finished his preparations for the trip to Marseilles. His mother had assured him she would be fine without him and he had packed his father's letter with his things. He thought that if he found this Mercédès and this Albert they might want to see the letter. He left Bertuccio with his mother and took Ali, the mute Nubian, as his driver. Early in the morning he left for Marseilles. As the carriage wheels clattered over the roads the questions ran through his mind. Who were these that his father had mentioned had their adulthood stolen? What had happened to them? What had they done to his father? He had alluded to some things, but what did it all mean? What had his father done to them? Who was Mercédès? Who was Albert? Most importantly, who was his father? 


	2. Answers?

Chapter Two Answers?  
  
A/N: Still don't own any characters from The Count of Monte Cristo. They still belong to Alexandre Dumas. The boy and Albert's daughter do belong to me. Thanks to everyone who reviewed, and I'll try to be quicker about posting the third chapter.  
  
Louis Dantés sat in his sitting room. He wondered what he expected from this trip. He expected to find out more about his father certainly, but what was it he expected to hear? He wanted to know who the people were that his father had mentioned in his letter, and had brought it with him. As he sat there, mulling through his thoughts, he read it again. He sensed that the story in it was important to his father, but what did it have to do with his father? His father had signed it with his name, but was it really his father's story? Whoever had written it had been bitter. He had never seen his father bitter about anything. In fact, the only mood he regularly saw his father in was pensive, like he was making a major decision. His father had never wanted to talk about his past, and if letter was indeed his story, he could see why his father never wanted to talk about it. he wouldn't even have wanted to remember it if it could have been helped, Louis was sure. But just because he didn't want to talk about his past didn't mean he didn't want people to know about his past. He'd left two clues, this letter to make people ask questions, and a name and address. Louis sensed with the instinct he had inherited from his father that the person on the slip of paper, this Mercèdés, was the same one mentioned in the letter. Those two clues alone were enough to reassure Louis that his father had loved his family, and he felt proud to be the son of a man who loved his family enough guide them in the right direction even after death.  
  
When Louis checked the time, he realized that he had been sitting here for an hour and it was time to continue to the purpose he had come here for. He rang for Anton, the boy from Marseilles that he had hired to be temporary help while he was staying here. He informed the boy that he required his services for the afternoon. Then he rang for Ali and instructed him to ready the carriage. Ali nodded and left. When the boy showed surprise at the driver being spoken to in another language, Louis explained, "Ali only understands Arabic. My father never taught him another language." Then he and the boy headed down to the waiting carriage.  
  
He instructed Ali to drive to the address listed on the slip of paper. The house that the carriage had stopped at was a small house on the left-hand side of the road. It looked to be about four stories high and probably housed many people in many rooms. He sent the boy to the door to ask after Mercèdés Herrera.  
  
******* The man answered the door to see a young boy of about 13 standing there, puffed up in his importance. Behind him he noticed a carriage stopped in the street. The boy must belong with whoever's in the carriage, he thought. "Can I help you?"  
  
"My lord wishes to speak with Mercèdés Herrera." "My mother is not currently at home, but if your lord thinks that I might be able to help him, I can speak with him now."  
  
"Just one moment sir." The boy went back to the waiting carriage.  
  
Louis Dantés looked out the window of the carriage at the man who answered the door. He looked to be a few years younger than his mother and didn't appear to be a servant. The boy returned and spoke to him through the window.  
  
"He says his mother is not currently at home sir, but if you think that he would be able to help he can speak with you now."  
  
Louis thought for a minute. The letter had mentioned something about Mercèdés having a son, which meant that if that letter had indeed been about his father, this man might have known his father as well. And if he hadn't, he could at least tell him when to expect to be able to speak with his mother. "I'll speak with him."  
  
The boy turned and nodded at the man in the doorway. Then he stepped aside to allow his master to exit the carriage. Albert looked at the man walking towards him. He knew that face. He'd seen it long ago. Or at least one like it. Years ago. The face had been older then. Even the way the man walked was familiar. He concentrated on figuring out where he'd seen it. One thing he knew for sure was that it was one that he had known well, and that he hadn't seen it in years.  
  
The young man reached the door, where Albert took his hat and walking cane. He showed him into the sitting room. "How may I help you, Monsieur."  
  
"Dantés. Louis Dantés. I'm looking for information about my father, and I think your mother can help me." He settled himself into his chair. His host remembered that face now, he just wanted to be sure.  
  
"And who was your father?"  
  
"Edmond Dantés, the Count of Monte Cristo." He paused for an instant. "I suppose that's me now."  
  
His host leaned back in his chair. "Yes, we knew your father. My mother and I, I mean. I might be able to answer your questions, but my mother knew him better than I did. I didn't know much about him. What I know I heard from my mother, and that wasn't everything."  
  
"Perhaps I should wait until your mother returns."  
  
"She's out of town until tomorrow."  
  
"Then I'll return tomorrow. In the meantime, is there anything you wish to ask of me?"  
  
"Only one question. How did you know to look here?"  
  
"My father wrote a letter before he died that mentioned someone that I believe is your mother. I also found a slip of paper that had your mother's name and address on it. My father wouldn't have had that for no reason."  
  
"What was this letter about?"  
  
"I'm not quite sure. I'll know better when I've talked to your mother, I think. I brought it with me. I thought you might want to see it." He pulled the letter out of his jacket and handed it to Albert. As Albert read it, his face passed from a look of slight confusion to a pained look.  
  
"Yes, my mother and I are both mentioned in this letter. She would like to read this as well."  
  
"I will bring it with me when I return tomorrow. I should probably be on my way now."  
  
Albert accompanied him to the front door, where he handed him his hat and cane again. Just as he reached to open the door, it opened and a young woman entered. She had the same dark hair and eyes of her father, and those who knew said she looked like her grandmother. She greeted her father and the guest, who tipped his hat and offered "Mademoiselle" by way of greeting. Then he offered a short nod to his host and headed back to the carriage that was still waiting in the street.  
  
Albert stood and watched him leave. His daughter turned to him and asked, "Who was that, father?" Her father answered, "The son of an old friend." As he said it, he knew it was the truth. For although he hadn't seen the count in many years, he had been honored to call him a friend when he had known him. 


End file.
